


So Let It Out and Let It In

by halfabreath



Series: Bittle Birkholtz Brousins [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: All the drabbles in the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins universe in one convenient place.





	1. Holster Comes Out

“Adam, honey?”

The words, caught on the artificial breeze of the air conditioner, flutter through the living room slowly. It takes the span of three breaths for them to finally come to rest on Adam’s back as he lays in the middle of the room, face pressed into the antique rug. It’s scratchy and musty and not at all comfortable, but this is what he does when he’s upset. Usually Bitty is here to rub his back and make him feel better, but today it’s just him and Judy.

The words are light but Holster can still feel the gentle pressure, knowing he has to respond. Before he can muster up the words he his stepmother’s feet come into his field of vision, her bright Lilly Pulitzer capris almost blinding in the late afternoon light.

“Hey, Jude.” He mumbles into the carpet. On any other day he’d sing it like he normally does, but on this, the day of his Wallowing, he can’t even muster up the energy to sing. Judy makes a disapproving noise and primly kneels down on the carpet next to him. She places her hand on his head and begins to comb through his hair like she used to when he was twelve and terrified of the strange new world of sweet tea and tupelo honey he’d been suddenly forced into.

The gentle grumbling of the air conditioner is the only sound in the room for a long moment, until Judy speaks. “Do you think four dozen brownies will be enough, or do you want another batch? And don’t you worry, sugar, I already made some for Justin so he won’t try to steal yours. You’ll give him my love, won’t you?”

It’s those words, unassuming and kind in Judy’s southern drawl, that sends him over the edge. Holster rolls over and sits up suddenly, settling cross legged with his back to his mother. He stares down at the carpet, picking at the intricate pattern of red and black and blue. He doesn’t want to see her face when he says this; he’ll limit himself to the image of just one mother’s disappointment, thank you very much.

“I think I - ” Adam swallows down the lump in his throat, shaking his head once, then once more to clear his mind. “I know I love him. I want to be with him, and there’s no way he’ll ever want to be with me because he can’t because he’s - he’s straight.” He closes his eyes, sucking in a quick breath before he ruins them forever. “He’s straight and I’m…not. I’m bi. Sexual. Bisexual.”

The words settle between them, too heavy to be caught in the air conditioner’s flow. He can feel the moment they settle onto the floor, pulling the entire house down with their weight.

“So you’ll definitely need something else besides brownies.” Judy’s voice cuts through the fear that’s dragging him down, and he turns suddenly in surprise. She moves closer, scooting forward on her knees, and reaches out to cup his cheek. “I’m sorry you’re hurting, sugar. But loving someone isn’t ever something to be ashamed of. Now stand on up; this deserves a cake.” Judy pats his cheek and pulls him up, only managing to pull him into the kitchen because of his state of shock.

The next thing Holster knows he’s holding two bundt pans, a cookie sheet, and various bakeware as Judy sorts through the cabinets in her search for the exact pan she has in mind. He knows he should drop it - Judy’s given him an out if he doesn’t want to talk about it, but…Adam’s never been particularly skilled at keeping his mouth shut.

“I thought you’d be disappointed.” He blurts out, just when Judy sets a cupcake pan on top of his stack with a clank.

She turns away to climb up on the kitchen counter, reaching for the very back of the cabinet. “Well, I am, a little.” Holster’s stomach drops. It’s happening again. It’s happening again and he was ready for it a minute ago and now he’s not. His face falls just in time for Judy to see when she turns back around. “Oh, no! No, no, Adam, no. That’s not what I meant!” She climbs down and hurries over to him, removing the metal sheets from his hands. “I’m so sorry, honey. I meant that I’m disappointed things won’t work out between you two.” She pulls him in for a fierce hug, gathering him up with all the strength in her small body.

“You listen to me, Adam Birkholtz. No one in this house will ever be disappointed in you, you hear?” She shakes him until he nods, then shakes him some more until he kisses her cheek and smiles. “Now put those pans away and we’ll make you that cake. Lemon and blueberry okay?”

“Thanks, Juju.” If his voice is a little rough, Judy doesn’t say anything. She glides past him, pressing carton of blueberries into his hands even though they both know she’s going to have to take them away in a couple minutes so he stops eating them. A cake won’t make him love Ransom any less, but later that night, when the house still smells like lemon and sugar, it’s what helps him amble downstairs to settle next to his father on the couch as he watches football.

Jacob wordlessly tosses him the remote, and Holster flips over to the NHL channel where the Sharks are playing the Coyotes, even though he already knows the score of the game since Chowder has sent updates to the SMH groupchat several times each period. He’s not watching it for the game so much as the backdrop of sound, hoping the familiar clacking and scraping will ease him into a relaxed enough state to say what he needs to say. He swallows once, twice, and blurts out, “I’m bi, dad.”

The whistle blows and play ceases, the player's’ momentum carrying them around the rink in swooping circles.

“I know,” Jacob says, reaching out to wrap his arm around Adam’s shoulders. He drags him down, until Holster’s head is resting on his shoulder. “I always figured you liked Henrik Lundqvist a little too much.”

Holster laughs, weakly punching his father’s arm. “Why didn’t you think I was gay, then?” Jacob chuckles, the motion tilting the room in little bursts as his head is jostled.

“Tina Fey.”  Jacob says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and it probably is. Holster lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, the knot of tension he’s been carrying around finally beginning to unravel. The puck is dropped and play resumes, and he can feel the buzzing of his phone in his pocket - probably Chowder contesting the penalty.

They watch the rest of the game in a companionable silence, speaking only to grumble about bad calls and sing along with the analysis show’s jingle in perfect harmony.


	2. Ways to Say "I Love You"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the 100 Ways to Say “I love you” prompts: #67. “I did the dishes.”  
> Takes place in the Bittle Birkholtz Brousins AU, during the Fourth of July Canadian Invasion that takes place between Bitty’s sophomore and junior years. Prompted by @chocolatechipcookiesplease / jamesiee

Adam has just selected the most two perfect bananas from the bunch in Aunt Suzanne and Coach’s kitchen for an Official Best Friend Sundae when Eric (they’re  _AdamandEric_  in Georgia, not Holster and Bitty) steps into the kitchen. Jack’s right on his heels, beads of sweat collected on his forehead, and he lets out an audible sigh of relief after he carefully closes the porch door behind him. **  
**

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Adam says, feigning innocence. Jack’s cheeks flush and Eric’s hand flies up to cover his lips, still red and swollen from kissing. Adam leaves them hanging for a long moment before jerking his head in the direction of the vent. “The air conditioning,” He clarifies, barely holding in his laughter when they visibly relax. If it were any other couple he’d chirp them to hell and back, but for Eric and Jack? He’ll bite the inside of his lip until he bleeds to keep a straight face. He’s not supposed to know about them - no one is - but in the eleven years they’ve known each other Eric has never once successfully kept a secret from his brousin. If he doesn’t blab then his expressions do the work for him, and Adam can’t help that he’s cultivated a sense for his cousin’s emotional well being. And now? Eric “Dicky” “Bitty” Bittle-Birkholtz-Bousin is happier than Adam’s ever seen him and there’s no reason for him to know that Adam knows his secret.

So, Adam keeps his mouth shut and turns his attention back to the sundae ingredients he’s strewn over the counters. Ransom’s waiting for him in the living room, no doubt deep in his self-appointed summer reading list, and he keeps his focus staunchly on digging out a rare whole oreo from the pint of cookies and cream and definitely does not hear the distinctive sound intimate whispering and the soft smack of a kiss behind him. It’s cute, how sneaky they think they’re being, and Eric’s trying and failing to be casual as he leans on the counter by Adam’s elbow.

“Where’d Jack go?” Adam asks, using his finger to force the glob of ice cream off the spoon and into the bowl. Eric rolls his eyes and digs around a drawer to hand him a second spoon, which Adam takes dutifully after licking the ice cream residue off his finger.

“He’s gonna take the first shower. What’re you still doing here?” Eric asks, moving the bananas to the side to hop up on the counter. He’s just about eye level with Adam like this and now that he’s closer Adam can see obvious hickey on his neck.

Adam uses the second spoon to tap against his own neck, estimating where the hickey would be in his own reflection. “Got some dirt, bro.” He says, smiling down at the ice cream when Eric blushes and scrubs his hand over the spot, trying to get the imaginary dirt off. “The air conditioning in my house broke. Dad and Judy are taking the basement and all the fans so your mom said Rans and I could crash in your living room so we don’t get roasted overnight.” He spins the spoon idly, flipping it between his fingers. “We’re going to watch a movie if you want in, but you’re probably tired. From…cooking all day and the party and stuff. You probably want to turn in.”

Eric sighs, handing over one of the bananas when Adam gestures for it. “Nah, I promised my mother I’d do all the dishes from the barbeque earlier today since I took off early to get a good fireworks spot with Jack.” He sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Adam’s shoulder. “It’s going to take me  _forever_  to get all that pie filling out of the tins if they’ve been sitting around since the party ended.”

“I did the dishes.” Adam says, nonchalant. Eric sits straight up, looking at him with wide, surprised eyes.

“You did the dishes.” He repeats, clearly shocked. Eric looks at the empty sink and spotless counters, gaze travelling over every surface in the kitchen as if he expects to find a cache of dirty dishes hidden somewhere.

Adam nods as he places the peeled banana in the bowl, arranging it with the care of a Michelin star chef. “Yeah. You said you wanted to hang out with Jack.” He explains, keeping his eyes firmly on the second banana he’s peeling. “I mean, he came all the way down here.” Eric’s silent as he settles the second banana into place but hands him the jar of hot fudge when he’s finished. Adam looks at his cousin’s face, and as obvious as Jack and Eric were being maybe Adam was a little too obvious, too.

“Thank you.” Eric says, leaning back against him. Adam sets the jar back on the counter and wraps his arms around his cousin, holding him tight. “When did you figure it out?” Eric asks, voice muffled in Adam’s shoulder.

“I knew something happened at Jack’s graduation because of your crazy emotional one-eighty.” Adam rubs Eric’s back as he explains, smiling softly when Eric’s arms wrap around his torso. “Then when we picked him up at the airport you looked so happy, bro. Happiest I’ve ever seen you in Georgia.” Every one of his suspicions had been instantly confirmed by Eric’s blinding smile and easy exuberance when Jack had appeared at baggage claim.

Eric’s quiet for a long moment. He squeezes Adam once, tightly, before letting go. “Ransom came all the way down here, too.” He says quietly. Adam lets out a tired sigh, already shaking his head. His gaze falls back down to the counter, unable to deal with the pity he knows will be in Eric’s eyes.

“I think we both know that’s different.” Adam’s jaw is tight and his voice is so low he almost can’t hear it above the constant hum of the air conditioner and the chirping crickets. He crushes a handful of oreos over the sundae, taking out his frustrations on the brittle cookies. He doesn’t want to talk about this - he  _never_ wants to talk about this - and while Eric’s never been able to keep a secret from him Adam’s never been able to keep one in return. It’s safe to put himself back together in front of Eric and he lets the devastation and futility of his stupid, stupid unrequited love for Ransom cross his face for just a moment before collecting himself with a steadying breath. Adam clears his throat and picks up the can of whipped cream. “Anyway,” He says, applying it liberally to the top of the sundae. “The dishes are done so you can go spend some super platonic time with Jack.” Eric shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest but Adam squeezes a dollop of whipped cream directly into his mouth before he can speak. Eric sputters and slaps Adam’s shoulder. “I’m fine, bro. Really. I’ve got it locked down and I get to hang out with my best friend. There’s nothing bad about that. Now go get some more of that stubble burn.”

Eric holds up his hands in surrender until Adam puts down the can of whipped cream. “I’ll clean up this stuff. Go have your bro ice cream thing.” He sticks the two spoons in the ice cream and shoos Adam out of the kitchen.

“It’s a Best Friend Sundae, trademark pending!” Adam calls over his shoulder at full volume, and the second the words leave his mouth Ransom lets out a cheer from the living room. Adam swoops in, dramatically lowering the sundae into Ransom’s hands and yeah, there’s nothing bad about this.


	3. If p then q

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modus Ponens isn't nearly as helpful as the Greeks thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt from the "100 Ways to Say I Love You" list: #10. Not Said To Me

The ping pong ball sails through the air in a perfect arch, flying from Lardo’s hand to land directly in the red solo cup with a barely audible splash. Ransom buries his face in his hands and Holster roars in frustration beside him. When he looks up Lardo’s raised her arms in a double fist pump of victory while Shitty dances behind her, celebrating joyously. 

“Every fucking time,” Ransom mutters, shoving his hand in the cup to grab the ball. Holster’s right behind him, pressed up against his back as he reaches around to pick up the plastic cup. His other hand comes to rest on Ransom’s hip, warm even through layers of clothing. Ransom knows it doesn’t mean anything. If there’s hardly any room in the Haus and the crowd around the pong table keeps closing in around them then Holster has to press close to get to the beer. If playing pong with Lardo is the fastest way to get hammered then Holster’s just tipsy and wants to make sure he doesn’t fall over. If  _p_ then _q._ It’s simple logic.

It doesn’t mean anything, and Ransom’s usually very good at accepting that. He’s had enough practice over the years of living with his drift compatible best friend and d-partner to know when his amygdala goes haywire and he has to remove himself from the equation altogether. And now, feeling the contraction of every muscle as Holster chugs the entire cup of beer in the middle of the party they’d planned together with Holster’s huge hand splayed over his hip?

Ransom knows he needs to get the fuck out. 

There’s a rush of cool air when Holster pulls away to wrap his arm around Bitty’s shoulders. Bitty leans into him, like he always does, but he’s looking up at his cousin in concern. Holster looks down at him and they have another one of their silent conversations, reading each other’s expressions through a decade of practice. Ransom looks away, feeling like an intruder, just in time to see Shitty throw a ball that bounces off the rim of a cup. He turns back to celebrate with his partner but Holster’s ducked his head so Bitty can whisper something in his ear. 

“No, Bits, it’s fine,” Holster’s not slurring his words but he’s speaking at full volume; he’s always loud when he’s tipsy and then gets relatively quiet when he’s actually drunk. Bitty huffs and gives Holster a quick squeeze before plucking the cup from his hand. 

“I’m going to get you some water. You, too, Ransom. Y'all are going to need it with Lardo’s hot streak.” Bitty says, wincing when Ransom reaches over to dry the pong ball off on the hem of his best friend’s shirt.

“A kegster mitzvah!” Holster waves as his cousin pushes through the crowd, calling out to him as he moves away. “Make good choices! God guide you in your quest! Use protection!” Bitty’s only halfway across the room but Holster’s increasingly ridiculous advice has his shoulders shaking in laughter as he weaves through the partygoers. Holster’s beaming, amused by his own joke, and he cups his hands around his mouth for one final bellow. “I love you, brousin!” He says it so easily, at top volume and in front of friends and strangers alike. 

Ransom knows that the sudden tide of emotion rising up in the back of his throat is just synapses firing through his temporal lobe. It’s organic data, just the limbic system doing its job, neurons and neurotransmitters and hormones and a deep, overwhelming, soul-crushing, world-changing love for his best friend. 

Ransom knows it doesn’t mean anything. 

He turns away and lobs the ball at Lardo and Shitty’s cups, feeling only marginally better when it catches the rim and falls in with a gentle splash. Lardo nods once at him, a sign of respect, and he’s suddenly lifted into the air by two strong arms. Holster’s singing his praises as he spins him around, only setting him down when Shitty yells at them to continue the game. Holster turns so he’s perpendicular to the table, mapping out his shot carefully. He’s got one eye closed and his glasses are slipping down his nose as he tests the motion of his throw one, two, three times before tossing the ball directly into the center cup. He immediately turns to Ransom, sweeping him up in a hug.

If Ransom’s heart swells when Holster buries his face in his neck, if his heart beats too fast, if he squeezes his eyes shut to block out the rest of the party, if he thinks he could stay here forever, if –

If  _p_ then _q._

It doesn’t mean anything.


	4. Summertime Sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is hot, Holster is miserable, and Eric is Done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ivecarvedawoodenheart prompted: Something in the brousins verse + those fruity flavored freeze pop things + summer? (Apparently “fruity flavored freeze pop” is among the technical terms)

Eric - he’s  _Eric_  or  _Dicky_  when he’s in Georgia - stands in threshold of his kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. The sharp right angle of the painted wood cuts into his bare arm, but he doesn’t mind the small bite. What he does mind, however, is the giant laying in the middle of his kitchen when Eric has a vlog to film. **  
**

“Adam,” He sighs, tilting his head to rest his forehead against the cool wood. He receives only a drawn-out groan in response. The summer heat settles around his shoulders like an electric blanket turned up to the highest setting, but Eric’s used to it. Adam, however, is not, and even though he’s called Georgia home for well over a decade his Northern constitution still hasn’t adjusted to the heat and humidity. He’s currently sprawled on the cool hardwoods that span the length of Eric’s kitchen, wearing only a pair of shorts Eric  _knows_  belong to Ransom not only because they’re slightly too short and slightly too tight, but because he saw Ransom wearing them when he and Jack visited last month for the Fourth of July.  

It’s been exactly thirty three days since Jack left, and there’s exactly ten days until he’ll see him again. Just ten days. Eric can survive ten more days, right?

A mournful moan echoes around the kitchen as Adam rolls over, turning into a relieved sigh when his back reaches a new patch of cool flooring.

Right. Eric has a sweaty giant to contend with.

“You’re lucky I mopped and swept the floor this morning.” Eric says as he steps over his cousin’s prone form. Adam’s frown only deepens; he’s giving out a real Nick Miller vibe today but Eric can’t even tell him that because he knows it’ll just encourage him. “Let me guess, the air conditioning at your house is acting up again?” Eric says mildly as he sets his camera down on the counter.

“I’m dying,” Adam groans, letting one arm flop over his forehead. “I’m dying, I’m dead, I’m deceased. Will you tell Judy I love her?” He says as Eric steps over him on his way to the fridge.

“No, but I will tell Ransom you’re hopelessly in love with him.” Eric shoots back. A cool wave washes over him when he opens the fridge; Adam sighs in relief and rolls over towards the cold air, curling his entire body around Eric’s ankles.

“Low blow.” Adam grits out as he tries to shove his head into the fridge. Eric just shrugs and pulls the ingredients he prepped this morning out of the fridge, stacking the neat containers in his arms.

“Maybe so, but someone has to tell him and if it’s not going to be you then it’s going to be me.” Eric twists around, only able to escape from Adam’s clutches thanks to Katya and her Russian calisthenics that somehow, inexplicably, prepared him for this very situation.

Adam pushes himself up so he can press his cheek against the fridge door. “Not all of us can have a cinematic as fuck first kiss with a gorgeous Canadian who has cheekbones that could cut glass and an ass that’s so perfect science itself can’t fully explain its existence.”

Eric opens his mouth to protest, then closes it because Adam’s not wrong. Turns out the Bittle-Birkholtz-Brousins have a  _type_.

Eric turns and leans against the counter as he studies his cousin. Adam looks absolutely miserable from the heat and the boredom and the pining and the fact that he’s probably re-watched  _Flight of the Conchords_  six times this summer. 

“Come on, get on up. You’re helping me with this vlog.” Eric declares. Adam’s eyes goes wide and he straightens up, looking like himself for the first time all day.

“Really? I get to be on the vlog?” Adam asks, already perking up. He lets out a whoop when Eric nods and even stands up.

“I need you to do an impartial taste comparison. I’m trying to recreate the flavors of freeze pops with fruit instead of what essentially amounts to frozen simple syrup. But you have to put a shirt on!” Eric turns suddenly, reaching out to poke Adam’s bare chest. “You hear me? No shirt, no special guest appearance.”

Adam grins. “You’re telling me that I get to eat popsicles for the next couple hours  _and_  I get to be on the vlog and all I have to do is put on a shirt? You’ve got yourself a deal.” He sticks out a hand; Eric takes it and shakes it three distinct times and the next thing he knows they’re in the thick of the Super Secret Brousin Handshake (it’s the Parent Trap handshake, verbatim, but no one needs to know). Adam’s hip bump almost sends Eric flying into the countertop but he just barely keeps his balance so he can retaliate on the next one, and Adam’s booming laughter echoes around the kitchen when Eric’s exaggerated hip bump hits him on his upper thigh instead of his hip. His smile remains even after the handshake ends, even when it’s stained red from the cherry popsicles Eric keeps making him try.

That’s more like it.


End file.
